So he asked a few practical questions. What were the rents here? Could he get a small house with a yard, or could he afford a nice apartment, perhaps close to a park, on this pay? And was there any good day care that they could recommend? One of the women in the office made a kind suggestion. If Jim would come back on Saturday, she would be glad to take him around, show him places where he might live comfortably, and make an arrangement for day care. So with his decision to accept almost made—unless of course an offer far more attractive should abruptly pop out of the air—he departed.
Driving back by another route through the town and passing a few tree-lined streets that looked more cheerful, he told himself that if the return trip on Saturday should end successfully, it might not be a bad undertaking after all. Thus did his mood veer from high to low, and from low back to high. One thing he did know: the vacation was over.
After an early breakfast and no lunch, he was hungry, and at the edge of town, approaching the highway, he stopped at a luncheonette, got hold of somebody's abandoned newspaper, and read it while he ate a sandwich. There often wasn't much news in these local papers, mostly sports and politics as you might expect, although now and then on a feature page, they printed an unusual human interest anecdote.
My God! My God!
The coffee spoon fell clattering on the table. The cup tipped, leaving a brown stain that circled and dropped onto Jim's knees.
A man named Wolfe in West Virginia was suing the state for false arrest. Traveling with a two-year-old girl in the backseat of his car, he had been stopped, brought to the station house, and held there for five hours until his wife, by telephone, had assured them that he was only taking their child to visit his parents for the day. It seemed, so went the account, that he had been mistaken for another man named Wolfe in New York City, who really had kidnapped his child. Arthur Storm, a spokesman for the child's mother, Lillian Buzley, was quoted as saying that “Donald Wolfe is sure to be found. He is probably hiding out in some rural area. He originally came from one, and it is likely that he has returned to a country town where he can find employment. But he should have no doubt that wherever he may be, we will find him, and it won't take very long, either. We will ferret him out.”
For several minutes, Jim sat there staring at the page. He had lost the power in his legs. He had lost the power to cope with this new reality. Arthur Storm . . . retired chairman of Regulex Amalgamated . . . Matisse . . . Picasso . . . power . . . detectives . . .
He should have no doubt that we will find him.
Why had he told those people just now that he was traveling with his two-year-old girl? He had to get back to her without losing a moment. And stumbling to his feet, he put down a ten-dollar bill, left without waiting for change, and ran to the car.
He wanted to speed, yet fearing the risk of a ticket, he did not dare to. So it was midafternoon before he drove down the redbrick main street that, by its relative familiarity and in spite of his agony, gave him a vague feeling of ease. The only thing he had to do there before his retreat to the farm was to buy a few more newspapers.
“Mr. Fuller! Still here? I thought you'd be in Memphis or Atlanta or someplace by now.”
Behind Jim stood Dr. Scofield, buying a magazine. This was the wrong time to get involved with anybody as jovial as the doctor. Once in his friendly clutches, it was almost impossible to get away.
“No, I'm still here,” he said pleasantly, “but leaving soon.”
“I still think of that young lady of yours. Throws up, feels better, and has the nerve to ask me for candy. Remember? Hard to resist those blue eyes, isn't it?”
“You bet. But I resist. Stern father, you know.”
“You don't look stern. Say, you must get along very well with Kate and Clarence to be staying so long. They're a nice pair, those two. I've known Clarence since he was a kid.”
Each having tucked his paper and magazine under an arm, they were proceeding toward Jim's parked car. But when they reached it, Scofield was still talking, and there was no way short of rudeness to stop him.
“It's a pity that they're having so much trouble.”
Trouble, thought Jim. At the present moment, Doctor, I'm the wrong man to be sympathizing with anybody's troubles.
But the doctor, resting his shoulder against the car, apparently had more to say. “They're an interesting pair, don't you think? She doesn't always care to show it, but Kate is a brain. He's an innocent dreamer, a hard worker, but he can't manage anything. He's too gentle and gullible for this modern world. So it's all on Kate's shoulders, a heavy, heavy burden.”
One might say that this was mere trivial gossip, the result maybe of living in a place where nothing of much greater importance ever happened. And probably that was true. Or possibly, it was the result of a genuine concern.
Still Scofield held him, although Jim wanted to walk around to the other side of the car and drive away. “Clarence is a born farmer, and he should have stayed one, like his father, instead of trying to develop himself into the CEO of some enormous corporation. Why, he's spent a small fortune on that place, about everything he owned, I guess, so now he's in debt all over town. Owes the bank, owes everybody, poor fellow. People have been patient because they've known the family forever, but there's a limit to patience. In fact, I've heard the limit now is sixty days, and then the place goes to foreclosure. You didn't know?”
“No,” Jim said, adding automatically, “I'm sorry to hear it.”
Perhaps that was why, after suggesting that they exercise the horses together, Kate had changed the hour. As a matter of fact, he had not even seen her on horseback, or anywhere, for at least a week.
Scofield mourned, “Yes, it's disaster. I wonder where they'll go.”
Jim was thinking, I'm wondering where I'll go, then felt a twinge of shame at his selfishness. If he could help them, he gladly would.
“It was nice to see you again, Doctor,” he said. “You were a lifesaver that day. But I have to get back to Laura. I'm late now.”
With the bundle of newspapers lying on the seat beside him, the first thing he had to do was to go and read them. We will ferret him out, said Arthur Storm. She was still Mrs. Buzley. But soon, little doubt of it, she would be Mrs. Storm. Ferret him out. Small pains quivered in Jim's temples. Let Laura stay later at Jennie's today. If she was there, it meant she was safe. Right now he hadn't the will or the strength to take her back to the cottage. My God, how much of this terror could a man stand?
As much as he had to stand, was the answer, the only answer. So he would stand. Yes.
He had parked his car and was walking to the cottage when he saw Clarence standing alone by the fence. There was something in the man's posture, leaning there with his face turned up to the hills, that caught Jim's attention. Foreclosure, Dr. Scofield had said. Leaving all this and going—where? He with the gentle wife; anyone could see the gentleness in her, especially as Jim had seen it on that single morning when they had stopped to let the horses drink. God's country, she had said. And then there was the boy, a scampy little fellow, but sweet, too. Gentle folk. What was to happen to them? And his hand went to the hot, heavy money belt under the loose shirt. There was undeniably a certain comfort in having it there. Clarence, leaning on the fence, would no doubt give anything to own a small portion of this comfort, he thought. And yet, nobody's hunting Clarence
down . . .
Clarence moved closer. “I promised to finish your tour of the farm, and I've never done it.”
“That's all right. No rush. Another time will do.”
“How about now? Come on. I'll show you around.”
He wants to talk, Jim thought in sudden comprehension. He simply needs not to be alone. And he remembered how, only a few weeks ago, he had sat in his car at that crossroad, longing for somebody, for anybody at all, to warm the chill of his loneliness and fear.
“Come on,” he said. Let the newspapers wait. The bad news, if any, would still be there an hour from
now.
“This gate's all rotted, you see. One thing we didn't get around to fixing when we did the big overhaul two years ago. Used to raise beef cattle, you see, but I had to quit because Kate hated it. Well, it's true she hated eating beef; she kept thinking about the slaughter, but that's not the real reason I gave up. The real reason was I couldn't afford it. Short of cash. The place needed everything when my dad died, so I went ahead and gave it everything it needed. Or almost everything. Take these two barns for milkers. This one's half empty. Cost a fortune, too. But I didn't know when I bought the herd and built all this stuff that a fellow on the other side of the village has all the business sewn up. He's got about six hundred head. Maybe someday there'll be a rise in demand for milk, but right now there isn't. Sometimes I figure this milk costs me five dollars a bucket. Suppose you know how to milk a cow?”
“No, but I could have learned all those summers when I worked on a farm before—college.” The sudden question had almost thrown Jim off guard. He had almost said “law school.”
“Reason I ask is, you get close to a cow. It's like dogs, or almost. When you have to sell one because it's too old, it kind of makes you sick, you know?”
“I understand,” Jim said gently.
A wire fence stopped the two men. Beyond it lay a fallow field, at least ten acres across, Jim estimated, on which wild grass was bending in the breeze.
“Grazing land for beef cattle, that's what it was. There's more across the creek. I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I guess I just need somebody to talk to. Sometimes you have to bring your worries out of hiding, or they'll split your head open. I'm sorry, Jim.”
“It's all right. I've had a split head in my time.”
“Kate kind of thought you did, hightailing it around the country with that baby. A man doesn't do that for nothing, she says.”
Jim looked at his watch. At this rate, Clarence would tie up another hour, and this last remark was too personal, anyway.
“I need to get my girl at Jennie Macy's,” he said. “I'm late as it is.”
“Yes, of course. I didn't mean to keep you. The children always come first. Always.” There were tears in Clarence's eyes. “No one knows that better than I do.”
The man was sick, very sick, in more ways than one. And heavyhearted, heavy-footed, Jim walked away. He looked again at his watch. It was almost five, and he had been away from Laura all day. She must be wondering where he was; perhaps she was crying for him. He rushed down the path, around the barn and up the hill, to find her sitting on the grass with Ricky and Kate.
“Jennie took her home when you were late,” Kate said.
“I'm sorry about that. I'll thank her tomorrow. And thank you, too.”
He was about to say that there had been a lot of traffic when Laura interrupted.
“See, Daddy! Duck!”
Ricky, holding a large, flat picture book, explained that it had been his “a long time ago,” but now he read real books, so he was giving this to Laura.
“It's a present from me, even though it's not her birthday,” he announced with some pride.
Jim was touched. “That's so nice of you, Ricky. Can you say thank you, Laura?”
Her eyes, those magical, intense blue eyes of Lillian's, were bright with excitement. She never even cried for “Mia” anymore. So soon do children forget! But somewhere Maria knows that she is happy and loved, he thought. His nerves were so delicate at that moment that he didn't know himself. It wouldn't have taken much to fill his own eyes with tears.
“Say thank you,” he said again, as a proper father should.
“Sank 'oo,” said Laura.
Ricky made another announcement. “I'm going to teach her to read as soon as she's three because I'm a very good reader. Did you know I'm in the fast group?”
“No, I didn't, Ricky. That's wonderful. You'd have to wait awhile, though, because Laura has a few more months to go.”
“Then I'll wait till she's three. Is that a long time?”
“Well, not very long,” Jim said.
Without intending to, he glanced at Kate and glanced away, yet not before she caught him.
“Well, now I suppose you know all about us,” she said.
“I'm not sure—” he began.
“I saw you walking with Clarence, and I'm talking about what he probably told you.”
“He's heartsick. I'm terribly sorry.”
Turning her face and voice away from the children, she said very low, “It is his life. His whole life is here. You'll have to leave here, too, you know, and you didn't get any job today.”
Jim was astonished. “How can you know that?”
“Because you would be saying so. And it would be on your face, anyway.”
She is definitely not the simple woman I believed I met on the train, he thought. She was seated with her hands around her knees. Thinking that he must look stiff as a beanpole standing tall above her, he sat down beside her.
“You won't find a job here,” she said. “You need to be in a city.”
“I don't want a city.”
Then she asked an astonishing question, so astonishing that he stammered when he answered it.
“Who are you, Jim?”
“That's a mighty queer thing to ask a person. What can you possibly mean?”
“I mean that I see you've had more troubles than you want to talk about. You wouldn't be putting your past behind you to start fresh almost a thousand miles from home if you hadn't had them. Anyway, this isn't your kind of place—”
With a stir of anger, he interrupted her. “You don't know the first thing about me, Kate, or about my ‘kind of place.' ”
“The other day, as I was passing the cottage, I heard your music. Men around here don't put Strauss waltzes on their record players.”
“So? It was pretty. It was happy, and I thought it would be good for Laura to hear.”
“You're dodging my question.”
“You haven't asked me a question.”
“Yes, I have. Who are you?”
“Do you really want to know? All right, I'll tell you. I've robbed a bank in Philadelphia, and I have a couple of bombs in my car, so they're hot on my trail.”
Kate smiled. “You had your little girl in the car, too. No, Jim. There's no one out hunting for you. Of your own volition, you're running away. I know you've lost your wife, but there's something else about you that makes me feel sad. And especially sad for Laura.”
This woman was going much too far! Still, her expression was gentle and genuine. . . .
“Clarence is very ill, and that should be enough for you to cope with,” he replied with equal gentleness.
And there came that expression again, the one he had observed, then forgotten and now remembered, when she had sat on the pinto looking out at the hills. It was the expression that gave a momentary beauty to features that were not beautiful, but merely regular and without noticeable fault. One would not turn to single her out of a crowd. Yet she caught your attention.
There's something about you that makes me sad.
Kate stood up. “Well, I need to make supper. Come on to your job, Ricky. The dogs are hungry, and they're waiting for you.”
For a moment Jim watched the two going back to their home. Then, taking Laura's hand, he went up the hill toward the place that was, for this very brief time, their home.
“Duck, Daddy,” Laura babbled, clutching the picture book. “Duck, Daddy.”
“Yes, duck. That's very nice, darling,” he responded, while his mind went racing. The first thing was to prepare her supper, the next to give her a bath, read a short story, and put her to bed. And then—then the long night would come, and he'd lie awake, and his mind would keep racing.
People don't want much, he thought. When you come down to it, what we really need is a fairly simple thing, just not to be afraid of tomorrow morning.
A row of cans stood on the roadside with the milk going sour in the heat. It w
as half-past nine, and Jim, walking back from Jennie Macy's house where he had left Laura for her half day, met Clarence staring at the cans.
“Can you believe it?” he cried. “The bastards overslept and missed the pickup truck. It's the last straw.” With a violent kick, he overturned a can. “Everything! Everything I touch goes wrong!”
Jim set the can straight and said quietly, “Let's carry them back. They'll need to be emptied and scoured. No use in upsetting yourself too much, Clarence. Things happen.”
“Things don't just happen! People let them happen. Ever since Dad died, we've been going downhill. It isn't my fault, I've tried and tried, but everything I touch is jinxed. Nobody I hire will cooperate. Sometimes I think they're all against me, they want me to fail, they're envious, they soldier on the job, behind my back, they—”
Jim stared at the man's poor face, his mouth distorted as in a tear mask. He was falling apart.
“Come on. Let's start carrying this stuff back to the barn.”
“I don't want to set one foot near the barn. I'll give them a piece of my mind if I see them, and then they'll quit, and then what will I do? What will I do anyway? I'm in this mess with my hands tied and a rope around my neck. Do you understand?”
“Listen to me, Clarence. I'll go send the men down to carry these back. Then you and I will take a walk.”
In the barnyard, two young men were having a smoke when Jim interrupted them.
“We'll be down in a minute,” one said. “What's the matter? He having a fit? Tim's clock didn't go off and the milking was late for once. So what? Old Clarence is losing his—” And with his forefinger, he made the insulting circle at his temple. “Every day he finds something else to bellyache about.”
They had lost respect. They saw weakness, failure, and a sinking ship.
“I don't have time to talk about Mr. Benson.” Jim gave them a cold stare. “And you don't, either. There's plenty of work to be done around here, and you'd better get started on it.”
“There's all this land,” Clarence began when Jim returned. “I could raise hay. As a matter of fact, I did raise hay, but there was so much of it that I wasn't able to sell it all, so there's the land, just lying there eating up tax money.”